


After Allison

by metroelephant



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-19
Updated: 2015-06-19
Packaged: 2018-04-05 02:23:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4162041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/metroelephant/pseuds/metroelephant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scott's memories of Allison just aren't the same anymore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	After Allison

**Author's Note:**

> Mostly canon compliant up through season two.
> 
> Thanks to withyourteeth and thatdamneddame for being my betas. Without you two this would be a mess.

When he thought of her, he used to think of the way her laugh sounded like wind chimes on a warm summer day. He’d think of the way she’d smile at him shamelessly while asking if he loved her. Her laugh as he kissed her dimples and she pushed him away.

He’d think of the way her floral dresses had spun out around her when she twirled. How she’d prop her feet up on the dashboard while he drove, keeping her window all the way down, while her dark hair whipped around her face.

He’d think of the sound of an arrow soaring through the air to hit its target perfectly. Her steady gaze with the hint of triumph behind her eyes. The way she was always more passionate after a practice with her bow. The hitch of breath when he kissed behind her ear, the giggle she let out when he kissed her stomach, the swat of a hand on his shoulder because, “Hey, that _tickles_.”

He’d replay the way she had said, “I love you,” over and over again, like a song stuck in his head, throughout lectures at school and long days at work. The sound he had never tired of hearing, that he had never wanted to stop hearing, that he had never planned to stop hearing.

When he thought of her, he used to think of being warm even when it was cold. He’d think of the color yellow, and of cheesy ‘80s love songs.

 

Now all he thinks of is the scrape of metal on metal. The harsh sound of glass breaking, the smell of gunpowder from when the airbags deployed. Blood on concrete running into the sewer drain, while sirens wailed in the distance.

He thinks of her family’s tears at the funeral. The silently judging gazes from his classmates, each saying _this is your fault_ or _it should have been you_ , to which he can’t even disagree.

He thinks about how his body came away unscathed, how he healed almost instantly but he still lost everything in a moment.

He thinks about how his world will never be bright again because she was his sun. She was the color that was in everything he did.

 

It complicated things with the hunters. He killed her. He knew he did, but he did it in such a mundane way, such a _human_ way, that at first they didn’t know where they stood with the Argents. But then bullets flew, racing toward anyone associated with the pack, and they were once again at war.

The first time Stiles got shot, he laughed it off. “It’s okay, it’s not that bad. No, we can’t go to the hospital they’ll call my dad. We can just go to Deaton’s.” Scott could still smell the gunpowder in the air, the scent of pain and loss and his last memory of her, but he conceded to Stiles, took him to the vet clinic, pretended like he could handle it.

The second time Stiles got shot, Scott thought he was going to lose him, too. The heart monitor’s constant _beep beep beep_ mixed with the thankfully steady _thump thump thump_ of Stiles’ heart, which was the only sound Scott cared about for days after, as he sat in the uncomfortable plastic chairs in the hospital waiting room.

Scott had to explain to the Sheriff what happened. He had to lie again. They were just walking in the woods when a hunter with bad aim must have missed his mark and hit his son instead. It all happened so fast.

Echoes of “it’s not even hunting season, Scott!” and “those bullets weren’t from your normal hunting rifle,” rattled around his head along with the accusations: “Does this have to do with whatever secrets you two have been keeping from me the past few months?” and “Please talk to me, Scott. Tell me what’s going on.” But he couldn’t.

Scott couldn’t tell him he had killed his girlfriend, and now he had almost killed his best friend.

 

Two days after Stiles was released from the hospital, Derek went missing.

More precisely, two days after Stiles was released from the hospital, Scott found out that Derek was missing. The betas came to him, asking him for help, for guidance, for answers, for something, anything. What if he’s dead, we would know if our alpha was dead, right? Who would be alpha then?

It was Boyd who approached him first. Boyd had to convince the other two that they needed his help. Isaac still had trust issues. Erica was still angry—at him, at Derek, at the world.

But they needed to do something to find their alpha, so Scott helped them.

They found him with the Argents again. He was the alpha, he was the one responsible for their daughter’s death. They managed to stop the electricity from coursing through Derek’s body. They managed to get him to safety. They managed to save him. Scott left the four to their reunion, silently escaping without a word.

Nobody had said anything, but this was Scott’s fault as well.

 

The air was still sticky and sweet on the first day of school. Summer still lingered in the air as school buses drove along streets and sleepy teenagers piled into the halls.

Scott kept his head down in the hallways, kept to the lacrosse field during lunch, concentrated on his teachers’ droning voices and the slamming of locker doors rather than the whispers of his classmates and the noticeable absence in his classes.

He had almost made it through the day when he was faced with Jackson and Lydia. Lydia who was still mad about being left out of the loop, who still resented him for what had almost happened to Jackson, for what had happened to her, for what had happened to her best friend.

He could read the blame in their eyes. He could see the disgust behind Jackson’s chiseled face, the undisguised hatred on Lydia’s delicate features.

Scott felt sick. His stomach lurched, his palms started sweating. Months of unshed tears and emotions he tried to keep locked away sprang to the surface as he rushed out of the school.

The late summer’s sticky air filled his lungs as he tried to steady his breath. The sun beat down on him as he hid behind Stiles’ jeep in the parking lot, sucking in rattled breath after rattled breath, wishing he still kept his inhaler on him to regulate his breathing, to force his panic attack away. The sun shone down, warming the already hot Northern California air but all Scott felt was cold after Allison.


End file.
